The Adventures of Zarthaen Ken'lyl
by RunMoogles
Summary: An obnoxious little cretin, and how he got that way. A Drow flung into some of the most precariously tumultuous of situations is forced to understand everything he doesn't want to. Purely original characters, give it a shot! Rated T to be safe.
1. Introduction

[[Disclaimer: I do not own anything that may be referenced to the Forgotten Realms campaign. Thanks to Penny4him for beta-reading the introduction!]]

Introduction

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He might have been rather young at the time, but he would never forget his early years of life in the caverns. What he couldn't remember was his family's faces, the place where he slept, and the name that went to their city. What he could remember were the early years of station's training.

There were three things, three terrible lessons, that he would come to know throughout his entire life; lessons that were begun the day he'd been born in that ever dark place. He was male. This alone ranked him low on the list of those important. He was not of noble birth. This further put him at the feet of his merciless leaders. And finally, he was a dark elf. For every other race of the middle earth, this alone meant many different things to each, none of them being positive.

If we were to begin at the beginning of beginnings, perhaps we might start with how his people had come to be where they were. But that is a story best left to the victors, whomever they might have been in so shady of a contest. And if we were to start with the horrors he'd suffered as a child, learning his place as both a commoner and a male at the hands of vile tempered priestesses, then we would be delving into any typical story of any subterranean born drow male as was ever told and will be told again. The first two decades of Zarthaen Ken'lyl's life were no different from that of any other drow learning his or her station.

However, the day he found himself stranded in a blinding world with no direction back to where he wanted to be, to where he knew he belonged...it was _now _that he pitied himself. What was worse, he'd gone from being the hunter to being the hunted. If it hadn't been for the Leading Lady of the town, Zarthaen would have likely become nothing but a head on a stick within that very day he'd awoken on the street to the greeting of a circle of sharp points. Unable to see, sick from the way the light made him feel, he barely offered a resistance. His disorientated self had been dragged to the stocks with very little questioning as to whether or not he was guilty for anything in the first place. He was a drow - what other answers did they need?

He was far too ill with some terrible sickness to be made aware of the proceedings that took place within those following days…weeks. He couldn't tell as time past by. But the conclusion came to an unexpectedly merciful ending. The leading lady of the town, being of Wood Elven heritage, gave sanctuary to Zarthaen. Whatever the reasons for the lady to do it, be it a statement against the larger High-Elven population, or simply out of curiosity, Zarthaen had little choice in the matter. In fact, he had little knowledge of it. Memories of that entire time were broken into half-conscious moments or dizziness and the effects of his illness. One day he'd awoken in a sunlit street to a sure death, the next he awoke in a soft bed, the room comfortably dark but the world full of sounds too foreign to him. Twittering and rustling and footsteps. The clamor of people at work, the sounds of squeaky children yelling and playing. It was an overload of the senses compared to the eerie silence of his home.

And upon his waking, this is where his story truly begins.


	2. The Sun

[[Thanks to Penny4him for beta-reading Chapter One!]]

Chapter 1: The Sun

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The sunlight was locked away from him, leaving the room shut into a tight and securing darkness. He awoke within it, reveling in the feeling of his senses returning to him. The sickening hold that his strange illness had held him in had faded in the last fever breaking days. He was only now becoming fully aware that he was still alive and not in the hands of the Abyss. Groggy, he sat up in his bed, aware of all the sounds and smells around him, and knowing that none of it was familiar.

"Ah, so you awaken, finally." A voice startled him, and he looked at the source of it. Blaming his weakened senses for disregarding her presence, he remained frozen, attempting to make sense of her. As dark as it was in the room, it was not dark enough for his eyes to filter into the infrared spectrum. From what he saw she was a surface elf, and an old one at that.

"Who are you?" was the first question to burst past his lips. His voice was harsh, and it made him jump. He was on edge in this strange place, and it made him terribly defensive. He struggled to take a calming breath, not daring to break eye contact with the lighter skinned she-elf.

"I am Lady Aeirlyth, the head of the town council. You have been very sick for many months." Zarthaen made a face, one contorted through a mixture of confusion and disgust. But he didn't say anything, and so she continued. "You were found in the street, unconscious. I took you in, my keeper nursed you to health."

"Where am I?" Zarthaen asked, frustrated with the lack of valuable information pouring from the woman's mouth. She didn't break stride, and his lack of gratitude didn't seem to shock her.

"You are in the town of Tierlynn," she explained, "on the surface."

Her last three words left Zarthaen in a thoughtful silence. A staring contest of monstrous proportions proceeded before he gave up with snort of derision.

"How did this _happen_?!" Zarthaen whispered harshly, more to himself than the woman sitting beside his bed.

"I'm not sure, but I know I'm just as curious," she answered him nevertheless, and he glared at her violently through the dark. A brief memory played in the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite wrap himself around it. He flippantly dismissed it, and instead returned his attention to the woman.

"What do you plan to do with me now?" He glowered at her, hating his life being placed in her hands. He had no weapons, he felt the weight of the effects of his illness, and was hungry enough to eat a herd of rothe.

"I plan to better understand you and your people, and I plan to explain my own to you." She was very patient, her voice very calm and certain.

"I don't think I'm interested."

"That's a shame," she quipped, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Zarthaen had seen that smile before, and knew that he was up against someone not as stupid as they let on—a schemer, no doubt. "And because if you don't listen to me, you get to answer to the council. I'm fairly certain they'd rather simply be rid of you."

Zar couldn't find any argument against her. He had nothing to stand by. He was in the worst place a drow could be, with no defense, and no reasons to be there. It was inevitably the worst-case scenario he could possibly imagine. Or so he'd thought.

--

The Sun—it was a terrible, dreadful, ghastly thing. How the people on the surface lived with it, and even worshipped it, appalled him. There was nothing that he could see or understand that made it worth bearing with. It made many days unbearably hot and uncomfortably bright. He abhorred it, and quickly became nocturnal. Remaining conscious during the day was nearly impossible with how dizzy it made him. And so the hours he didn't spend in reverie, he spent grudgingly learning from Aeirlyth.

"How'd you learn to speak drow?" He'd asked her during one of their surface common lessons. She smiled wistfully.

"We all are all entitled to our secrets, Zarthaen," she responded coyly. She'd been able to gather his name from him amongst few other bits of knowledge, and in return had only provided just as much. They played games of trading knowledge and memories, measuring the worth of such by only how their own curiosity egged them on.

"Aye, such has been made quite clear. Then what has been your experience with my people?" Zarthaen's face remained stoic, already fairly adept at the game they'd been playing for the past few months.

"You mean my people's dark cousins? You are not so entirely separated from the family of elves as you'd like to think," she argued, a smile of superiority contorting her answer into snobbery.

"That was not the answer to my question." Zarthaen wanted to grin with triumph, knowing he'd caught her in a trap. By respected rule, with her deviation came the expectation that she give him the full story he'd originally asked for.

"I had a lover," she answered in a depressed sigh. Zarthaen blanched, mercilessly exploiting her confession. "Don't," she raised her finger as he opened his mouth to reveal his disbelief.

"Do continue," he answered, once he'd calmed himself.

She calmed her face, wanting so terribly to glare at him. Sometimes she just couldn't maintain the patience necessary for this young dark elf. "He was half-drow," she explained, but did not continue as he blanched at the possibility of such a thing. When he realized this, he quieted, ever so slightly crestfallen like a child not allowed to hear the rest of the story before bedtime. This made her smile; each time she saw this touch of innocence in him it made her decision feel all the more just and right.

"Oh, I'm tired," she whispered, as she stood slowly. She'd tired more quickly from their game than normal, and Zar watched her stand and ever so gracelessly make her way to her quarters. He did not feel concern for the old elf lady, but he did realize that whatever had taken hold of her in the past months was not good for her health. And what was not good for her health was not good for Zar.

Where would he go?

Frustrated and without answers, he spent the last hours of the falling light in reverie. When the sun had hidden itself, he explored the town. On feet skillfully silent, he watched the world in ways none on the surface ever could. Everything they missed during the night, Zarthaen saw as clearly as though it were day. Life, he felt, was more exciting on the surface when the sun had fallen. Perhaps that was a slightly prejudiced view, or perhaps it was simply founded on the fact that he was not disturbed by the people's stares and glares nor the effects of the sun in the dead of night. Whatever the case, the world of the surface was simply more tolerable when the great ball of fire slept.

And so at night he crept, knowing the place as the people who'd lived their all their lives had never known it. On this night, as he took his walk, he'd have never expected running into anyone, which is why his guard was down when somebody ran headlong into him during the dead of night. He fell back with a harsh thud, and that somebody crushed him, pinning him to the forest floor. Having the wind knocked from him, it took him a bit longer to orient himself than the elf who quickly stood up. She, as he assumed from the tune of her voice, was utterly flabbergasted and dribbling with apologies. He knew she could not see him; could not see him as he smiled, amused, at her terribly white-hot face flushed with embarrassment.

"What you doing out?" he asked, his terrible common ruined further by his accent. She froze where she stood, and he could see the color (quite literally) drain from her face. She made quickly to turn and run in the other direction, but Zarthaen was faster. Snatching her wrist, he flung her back to the ground and looked down at her triumphantly. "I ask you question. Answer."

She stared up at him in utter horror, struggling with her voice for an answer. "What is it to you?" She finally summoned up a response, gathering some kind of reserve to remain defensive. Zar kneeled down in front of her, bringing his face uncomfortably close. He watched her quiver. He was reveling in her fear, delighted with this newfound power.

"Are you scared, faerie?" he asked, his voice more derisive than the words.

Her face scrunched in anger towards the mocking tone, and with little thought to the action, put as much force as she could behind the swing of a curled fist. Zarthaen almost didn't see it coming, but it didn't matter that he had. He was only seeing random bubbles of lights behind his eyelids as he heard her gather herself up and run. Holding his bloodied nose in his hands, he was nearly in the mind to go after her. But he was done playing, what with a colossal headache coming on and all.

Maybe braving the sunlight tomorrow was worth revenge.


	3. Loss

[[Thanks to Penny4him for beta-reading Chapter Two!]]

Chapter 2: Loss

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"Are you ready to come in yet?" Lady Aeirlyth's musical laughter made her sarcasm all the more biting. The joking question was spoken pointedly to a certain dark elf lying on the grass of her garden behind the house. "Or are you still holding up a fight?"

Zarthaen groaned but made no move to argue. The sun was in full swing up in the sky, beating down on the back of the drow as he stubbornly fought to accustom himself to its glare. He'd have to at some point, he figured. "Just… put me… out of… my… mis—ery …" he groaned into the prickly, itchy blades of grass.

She chuckled gently before a cough shook her.

Zarthaen thought back to the whole reason he'd been inspired to face the daystar in the first place. That next morning after colliding with the infuriating girl elf, he'd strode out into the sun. How easy it'd been to forget the terrible light while locked away in the Lady's house. The sun, he realized, was a greater foe to be more carefully dealt with before he faced that silly girl and exacted revenge. He'd keep at it if it took another hundred years, he supposed. He had time. He had nothing else to do while he was here.

"Zarthaen, you're common has become impressive. I'm proud." She spoke absentmindedly as she tended to her small garden.

She sounded tired, he noticed distantly. More importantly, he glowed with pride. "Not so… complicated of a language… as you'd all… like to think," he grunted, arrogance weakly touching the edges of his tone.

This elicited another knowing chuckle from the Lady. "Such pride you dark elves have," she whispered. "It will undoubtedly always get you into trouble some day."

Zar only grunted in reply. He didn't care what she thought anyways.

When she realized he wasn't going to continue, she changed the subject. "So what was your life like in the Underdark Zar? I don't think I ever got the story out of you during our games."

Their little question-and-answer game had long since ceased in the past month. She'd grown too weary to catch him or win even a few answers out of him. Often, she spent more time sleeping than in reverie, and more time just sleeping in general. Zar knew that something was wrong with the woman, but didn't have the humility nor the passion to care. But knowing that she may be on the edges of her days, he humored an easy answer for her. Was it mercy? He almost halted in his answer to her at the thought. "I was a commoner. Nothing at all interesting. I learned to fight by the house weapons master, and was even sponsored to start at the academy. But other than that, things weren't particularly spectacular," he muttered into the grass after he'd rolled somewhere closer to a tree where there was shade.

She listened quietly, and remained quiet for a time afterwards. "You don't seem like you're in a hurry to get back," she muttered.

"Yeah… about that." He laughed quietly, a whisper on the breeze."I haven't picked up a blade in days, I don't know how to get back, and even if I did I wouldn't survive the wilds anyways." He went on, his voice growing with the irritation he'd packed away from nearly half a year. "And I can't even remember how I got here in the—" he halted, sitting upright with a newfound memory. The Lady looked at him curiously, waiting for him to continue.

"That's it! By the Goddess, that's it! Those … those mages! Agh! All this time!" Zarthaen stood up, his fists clenched as though ready for physical combat. "They did this! Oh, I should have _known!_"

Lady Aeirlyth looked up at him in a mixture of shock and amusement. "Zarthaen has some unfinished business?" she asked as she watched him seethe.

"Is there a training hall anywhere around here?" he whispered darkly, turning to her.

She stared up at him, watching his eyes burn with a telltale whicker of resentment, bitter rivalry, and a terrible grudge. "Certainly, although I don't know how willing the town would be to put swords in your hands."

Zar frowned, realizing his dilemma. "What would I gain from cutting off the hand that feeds me?" Zar argued.

"Drow have attacked before with little to gain from it but pleasure."

"And I would stand against an entire town?"

"Zar, I understand you have little motivation to quarrel with us, but the people would not understand," Aeirlyth tried desperately to explain, her cough acting up as she did so.

Zarthaen glared at her mercilessly. "Then I can practice here," he said, his hands resting on his hips. His eyes were elsewhere, probably envisioning a blade feeding on the heart of those mages.

"Then make yourself something to practice with," she said, pointing to the tree he took shelter under. He followed her direction, staring at it incredulously, before looking back at her with a lack of understanding. Lady Aeirlyth shook her head and rolled her eyes before setting off to the house for an ax.

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He'd been instructed to take from the tree only what he needed, and he'd done just that. It gave him something to do besides lay suffering on the lawn under the brutal destruction of the sun. It helped pass the time and keep him focused as he worked to shape the two slats of wood he had into balanced practice weapons. He'd never worked wood before, let alone heard of such a material, but had picked up the idea of it easily enough to make himself something to practice with. When finished, the weapons looked rather crude. They didn't balance well, but they were better than two sticks. Light and small, they resembled slightly curved short swords that he practiced with in the typical drow fashion of two-hand fighting. Often he shifted the left into a defensive position, leading with the right, but both blurred together equally, complimenting the other. The Lady came out to watch for some time as he practiced parries, but neither spoke. The silence was not awkward between them, merely respectful. Hours after she'd retreated wearily into the house and the sun was beginning to fall, the sweaty and dirty dark elf trudged inside to the utter horror of the house servants. When he glimpsed one of the other younger servant girls gawking, he gave her a wink, and flustered, she shooed him to his room.

"The Lady ought to send that thing back to whatever hole it crawled out of," he could hear the older servants blustering as he was ushered from the kitchen. He turned towards the servant girl just as she threw an armful of laundry at him.

"Thanks, darling," he laughed, enjoying every bit of the young human's bitterness towards him. "I find your temper overwhelmingly attractive!" he called out as he strode into his room to clean up and change.

He didn't join any of them for dinner. The Lady always had supper with her servants, and Zar just couldn't handle it. Sure, he'd been born a male commoner, not that much better than a slave other than the fact that he was drow, but the two classes mixing for supper kept him in his room until the commotion was over. When the house seemingly slumbered, he snuck his way in for a few rolls and perhaps some vegetables. As he reached the kitchen, however, he found the Lady asleep at the table. Thankfully, not in her food, but her head cradled in her arms. Zar stared at her for several moments as he broke apart a roll, deciding that the shallow movements of her back showed she was still breathing and thus alive. But still, who fell asleep at their dining table? He took several steps towards her, poking her shoulder. Nothing happened, and he proceeded to poke her a little harder. She groaned a little incoherently and he decided that was enough of a sign she still had some life in her. It was odd to see her acting so...human-ish, though. Zar was fairly sure that while he hadn't met many surface elves in his time, they were no different than any other elf.

Wait.

Zar blinked at this thought, shaking his head. Of course he shouldn't expect her to behave with the grace and dignity of a dark elf, she was a faerie. Of course. Right? Zar took another bite of his roll and stared at the mirror that covered one entire wall of the dining room. His short hair had grown quite a bit, enough to place into a small ponytail. It framed his face in soft curls, almost making his elven features seem somewhat soft. In sharp contrast, his white hair and eyebrows stood out from the dark skin he'd not seen on another soul in many months. He observed himself, his mind discerning between what he'd been taught and what him mind was trying to tell him.

Lady Aeirlyth hadn't always been this way. She was sick and dying - Zar knew this. Everyone in the house knew this. She was old. She was quite old when Zar had met her, and while it wasn't normal for elves to fall ill, she'd fallen quite ill in her age. Zar looked down at her thoughtfully and decided that she had been just as graceful as a dark elf but knew that if he ever admitted it aloud, he'd be the laughing stock of every one of his peers back home. Then why…

Zar couldn't begin to conjure any answers all on his own for the questions beginning to bubble to the surface of his mind. Besides, he was accepting enough weakness as it was. If any of his brothers and sisters back home knew about the fact that he had let her live this long, they'd string him up by his neck as a new toy for Lolth. Now thoroughly quite grumpy, Zar left the room and took a walk.

The world was at its best in the early morning a handful of hours before sunrise. There was quite a fog hanging around and made it an interesting feat for Zar whose eyes had shifted to the infrared. A coolness hung about in the air that gave an abstract grey view to everything, but he liked it. It was different. As he ventured, he watched everything that had become familiar to him. All of the night creatures that favored the shadows just as he did. He didn't know their names, had never thought to ask the Lady about them, but enjoyed observing them nonetheless. It weren't as though there were more interesting things to do about this place.

"You're always out at night, aren't you?"

Zar swung around, quite startled. Who the heck could sneak up on him like that? As he turned, he was met with a huge glare of burning light. Covering his eyes, he waited for them to shift back to the light spectrum, and his intruder gave him the time. Apparently this person thought it funny to light lanterns randomly, he thought quite bitterly. As he looked up, eyes bleary as though he'd been sobbing, he saw the face of his adversary, only several months older. Her auburn hair had grown a bit, framing her angular face in a wild but exquisite way.

Zar made a disgusted face. "It's quite enjoyable when faeries don't destroy it with light," he grumped, taking a threatening step towards her.

She made no move to back down, her eyes meeting his own with a peculiar flatness to them. "I'm not afraid of you," she whispered, holding her lantern high. A staring contest ensued, hate emanating off of one and the other holding her ground. "Why do you hate me so much?" She asked, her voice soft and wistful.

Zar's face cleared a moment, taken off guard, but he quickly replaced the fallen hate with a mask of frustration. "You almost broke my nose, what do you mean 'why do I hate you'?!" Zar exclaimed, lunging for her throat with his hands. Startled, she threw the lantern and went to withdraw a weapon. His hands found their hold before she could raise her dagger, and it too fell to the forest floor as they both went tumbling to the ground in a heap of grappling hands and flailing limbs. She choked, raising a fist to slam his jaw. It didn't have much swing behind it, but was effective in deflecting him a moment to crawl towards the dagger. He didn't allow her to get close enough, however, as he grabbed her back by the hair and pushed her against the tree. He had her pinned and they both knew it. A triumphant grin settled on his lips. She stared at his face, so close to her own, and placed a quick kiss on his lips. He dropped her in complete and utter horror, wiping his mouth and spitting. It gave her the distraction she needed as she dived for her dagger and lifted it. She came at him with it, rage splitting her face into an ugly mask of hate. The gleaming point of the dagger came towards his chest, but stopped short.

Not because he stopped it, not because the will of the gods kept his death from happening then, but because their eyes locked and for a split moment, just barely long enough, they both forgot what they were fighting for. She held it still, the tip embedded in his clothes but not yet flesh, her blue eyes locked with his red-green flecked ones. He didn't egg her on, and she didn't dare him. Zarthaen couldn't begin to translate what was crossing her mind that was keeping her from killing him, but was quite glad she'd hesitated. Feeling more and more like a fool for standing there, he was pretty sure he was acting suicidal when he reached out and took the dagger from her quivering hand.

"You've never killed someone before… have you?" he asked, quite softly, and it nearly startled him with how soft his voice was even to his own ears.

Her eyes froze in their state, staring at him, daring him to admit that he had indeed, in his young years, taken a life before. When he didn't relate with her, a crease formed between her brow. "And you have?!" she yelled unbelievingly, her raised voice startling him. When he offered no further answer, didn't deny the question, she stood stunned. "You've got to be barely older than I!"

She was aghast and Zar couldn't fathom why. The silence that followed was immediately uncomfortable, and Zar shrugged stiffly. "Why do you care?" he whispered grudgingly as he slowly turned and headed for the only sanctuary the surface had to offer him.

When he slipped back into the dining room, the morning star was just beginning its rise, and it cast a warning glow over the threshold. Zar walked past the Lady in her rather uncomfortable place at the table, but stopped short of the hallway and looked back at her. She was eerily still, and he moved to shake her awake. She didn't stir, so Zar shook her harder. He wasn't quite sure if it was his voice that was yelling, and didn't want to admit it if it was, but all he remembered after realization hit him was a servant pushing him towards the hallway. He didn't want to leave the room without seeing for himself that the Lady was surely waking up any moment. His hand rose in threat towards the servant, dagger in tow, and then the last thing he felt was a hard object at the back of his head that sent him into a reeling darkness as the floor rose up to meet him.


	4. Matters of the Heart

A/N: Before we begin the story I would like to thank the generous reviews that I have received already. Your support is truly inspiring! Second, I'd really like to thank Thor and Penny4him for the wonderful beta reading on this chapter. The help was greatly appreciated!

Chapter 3: Matters of the Heart

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She'd always called them matters of the heart; thoughts and feelings Zarthaen Ken'lyl had never had, had never experienced, had never been inspired to understand. They were weaknesses, emotions that brought about little to no gain. Perhaps Zarthaen had missed out on some of his earlier teachings, or somewhere along the way he'd been dropped on his head quite brutally as a child, but he was almost sure that the stuff leaking from his eyes was the pain Aeirlyth spoke of, and that it wasn't very becoming of a drow.

As he sat there, at the edge of his bed, dressed in the finest things the servants could find to fit him, he wondered why he would want to go out into the brutal sunlight and stare at her cold, dead, and lifeless form with everyone else in the village. It was his chance to run, to get away, to go home, to be free. He was free. And yet, he couldn't seem to will himself to move.

Was it because when the Lady had been alive, filling his mind and heart with weakness, that it was the first time that he'd ever truly felt free? It was never about integrity, it was never about righteousness or rules or justice. She'd accepted him as a conniving and unlawful cretin and let him be, all the while uttering stories and wanting to know his own. Now, he would step outside to a sea of faces filled with sorrow and hate and judgment. He couldn't begin to hate her the way he'd been taught to. He couldn't begin to rid himself of the hollow place her leaving had placed in him. Why had she left so soon anyways? She surely had many more years left! Surely the illness should have passed. The disbelief only served to make him angry for some reason he couldn't fathom, and what made it worse was that she wasn't there to explain it to him.

Decided, the young drow stood, wiped his face with his sleeve, gathered some resolve, and took the bravest step of his young life out the door and into a living lesson on matters of the heart.

Outside it was quite bright, being the peak of the day. Zar squinted terribly, trying to make out the blurry forms of people bustling in their nicest clothes to congregate around the local center of worship. Zar had never stood in public since the day he'd been found laying in the street. People stopped and stared, their minds taken from their great sorrow momentarily at the odd and unwelcome sight of a drow standing at their Lady's doorstep. Children pointed, mothers hushed their questions, but eventually, they all began their proceedings once more. Zar shifted uncomfortably, standing under the cover and in the shade of the porch. This was going to be a lot harder than he thought. The idea of running was becoming more tempting with each passing second.

What this odd feeling of responsibility he felt was, he could not identify. However, he was becoming more and more used to odd emotions he couldn't name when it came to his feelings about his deceased hostess.

Looking at his boots the same way he'd been forced to for the first ten years of his life, he took a deep and thoughtful breath. Holding it, he rolled his shoulders back and looked up once more towards the place he'd been told to go, and then let that breath go as he stepped out into the sunlit street.

It was awkward, and Zar felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. As though he had the plague, there was plenty of room between him and everyone else. In fact, he had an entire pew all to his lonesome. It worked quite fine for Zar, except that every time he shifted or made a slight movement of any sort, dozens of pairs of eyes were on him, scrutinizing him. Vaguely, he pondered if it were at all blasphemy to sit in a church not belonging to his own deity. When it occurred to him that the next possible worst thing that Lolth could do to him at this point was turn him into a drider, which was pretty awful, he settled into his seat and observed the processions comfortably.

Mourning the dead and celebrating their passing with communal sorrow was an odd concept to Zar. It was quite simply something that didn't happen in the Underdark. Bodies were often thrown to the drider pits, thrown to thewilds, left to rot, or burned, but never dressed up and buried. So when it was his opportunity to look down upon the Lady in her last resting place, it shook him to see her so utterly perfect. She looked younger almost, and paints adorned her eyes and lips, dressing her face up as he'd never seen it. Her clothes were immaculate and not what she'd passed away in at the dining table. Zarthaen the drow had seen bodies utterly mutilated beyond recognition; he'd seen the intestines ripped out of the gut of his uncle and strewn across the temple floor. He'd seen a child thrown against the wall mercilessly, a slave's skull mashed with a hammer until it was a grey pulp, and yet none of those experiences had disturbed him within a fraction of an inch like seeing the Lady so perfect in her death, ready to be placed in the earth. He backed away, his eyes not leaving what shook him so. He couldn't control the expression of disgust that crossed his features, nor could he bring himself to control the hasty direction he took away from her casket, down the church aisle, out the door and back to her house.

He wasn't sure what he'd do there, but at least it would be away from all of those people, all of those watching, staring, scrutinizing eyes, and her. Away from the Lady who lay in a casket, no longer breathing and gone forever. It disturbed him and he wasn't comfortable with being disturbed over the loss of someone else's life. Back in the house, in his room where he knew he wouldn't be bothered with the servants, he sat on the edge of his bed and thought. He let his mind travel over the hazy beginnings in which he'd been quite ill, to the many months he spent learning about the world around him and the common tongue. The months he'd spent learning and swapping stories had made him grow soft towards the old she-elf. He'd gathered a weakness for her and he had harbored it. He stared at his obsidian colored hands for a long time, his mind elsewhere but not in reverie. Perhaps in shock, perhaps waiting for an answer to come that he knew never would.

When there was a knock at his door he didn't jump, but rather looked up slowly, his eyes tired. There was a second knock after awhile, and Zar grunted ascent. It opened to reveal a timid and bashful looking but all too familiar young elf. Zar's face immediately adopted a glare. He made to yell at her and banish her from the house, but she held up her hand and effectively silenced the words on his tongue. There was sorrow in her eyes. He knew it because it was the same expression that had adorned everyone in town. He wondered if they could tell that he was sad, but settled all too quickly with the belief that they hated him too much to care, and that he wouldn't want them to know anyways. It wasn't far from the forefront of his mind that every soul in the town would have killed him if the Lady hadn't taken him under her wing. Zar heaved a heavy sigh, looking grudgingly at his hands as she entered and closed the door behind her. He wanted to issue her another violent stare when she settled her weight onto the bed next to him, but didn't have the heart to. He kept his eyes on his hands, clearly avoiding her and everything else. It was silent for a long while, the stillness nearly overwhelming as though each dared the other to move or speak first.

"I'm going to miss her," the girl said suddenly, her voice filled with caged tears as she dropped her face into her hands. Zar looked at her, unsure how to act, how to treat this odd occurrence. Here was a near sworn enemy of his blubbering into her hands over a dead person. In his chest he felt a strange twinge and he looked away, his face contorted with confusion. All he wanted was to go home where people, _his _people, were predictable. Perhaps not predictable, but they sure behaved in ways he could understand. At least he knew how to react to them. At least they didn't cry over dead people.

"Don't you… miss her?!" She turned on him, sniffling pitifully, her face strained between sorrow and frustration. Zarthaen's jaw dropped with words he didn't have, and he found himself opening and closing his mouth several times, dumbly attempting to force an explanation past his lips.

"What the hell does it matter to you?!" he fought back when he couldn't seem to get himself to admit that yes, he did miss the Lady greatly. So much that it actually seemed to hurt. But he didn't understand it. He didn't understand loss because he'd been raised to take, not to understand losing. The only thing worth mourning was the loss of one's own life; that, Zar understood. Yet these emotions stormed upon him mercilessly whether he could control and understand them or not, and he couldn't seem to banish them either. He watched her shake, her eyes searching his face for something she could understand. Zar's frustrated glare began to melt into indifference. He couldn't offer her clues to something he didn't understand himself; he didn't want to.

"Look…" she began, her voice cracking as she worked to gather herself together once more, "I didn't come here to fight with you," she explained quietly, her voice a whisper. "I came to offer you a place to stay. The Lady had asked my mother that her family be available to give you such on our farm." She spoke grudgingly, as though she hated the idea. Zar stared at her flatly.

"I'm going home," he said stubbornly in response.

"Then go home!" she yelled, standing upright and heading towards the door. "Go back to whatever cave you belong in you… you… you ugly, mean, spider worshipping freak!" she spat as she slammed the door behind her. Zar's eyebrows lifted in surprise, not expecting her to know anything about his people, concerning spiders, and certainly not expecting the stream of insults.

It was a fib. Zar had no idea how to get home. The more he realized that he might be stuck here forever the more he began to fret about something he knew he had no control over. It wasn't as though he could walk up to the tavern and holler for an adventurer who knew the nearest route to the upper tunnels. He'd be lucky not to get his head lopped off. Young and inexperienced, Zar was smart enough to know he held little to no chance trying to find his way home on his own, even if he did find the upperdark. To survive the wilds of the subterranean caverns was a feat bested by few; very few.

Exhausted and not sure why, as he knew he hadn't done anything all day worth being exhausted over, he turned in for reverie, his confusing emotions so unsettling that eventually even sleep claimed him.

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He was groggy the next morning when one of the older servants roughly poked him with a wooden stick. He waved it aside feebly, rolling over and attempting to orient himself from the throes of slumber. He remembered again why he hated the idea of sleeping and how much more wonderful reverie was. The intolerable old woman kept jabbing him with the stick as though he were a lazy dog, and he attempted to bat it away several times, all to no avail.

"Alright!" he screamed finally, snatching the stick and throwing it across the room. The woman screeched and another servant rushed into the room.

"He tried to kill me! Oh word, he threw that stick at me!" she gasped at the other servant, who turned a glare on him. He returned the glare, knowing that the old woman was lying terribly but not caring in the least. Let them think he was crude and bad tempered, all the better to keep them away.

"It's a good thing you're leaving today," the newer servant spat as she slapped his things onto his desk. They were his old weapons and armor. It was a bit of a shock to see it so well intact. The Lady must have placed it in the cellar, for the sun must not have seen it since the day he'd been laying in the street. Zar went to them like a mother seeing their child for the first time, lifting the gently curved long daggers in their sheaths to inspect them reverently. It felt like he hadn't held them in his hands in years.

"You'll be heading to the Valen's farmhouse in a few short hours, so you better be ready soon," the servant ordered, eyeing him warily, and rightfully so now that the drow had his weapons in hand.

"How… how come you've returned these to me?" Zar asked, turning his face away from her to hide his obvious bewilderment.

The servant shrugged noncommittally. "We are carrying out our Lady's will whether we believe her wishes to be truly wise or not," the servant answered, her voice softening by only a very small degree, but noticeable enough. She stood in the middle of his room, folded linens in hand and watching him with an expression of obvious curiosity.

"What?" he asked defensively and looked up at her when she had yet to leave. She sighed, looking at the floor and biting her lip, before turning on her heel and leaving. Zar watched her retreat, his expression filled with his confusion. He just couldn't understand these people for the life of him.

Zar lightly padded down the hallway, silent in his well-worn boots he'd been missing for so long. As he rounded the corner he quickly slowed. A gruff looking elf was standing there, quietly talking to the servant who'd brought his things in. They didn't take notice to his presence, and it wasn't hard to listen in on their conversation.

"She was rather upset but I told her we'd made a promise we couldn't back out of," the man said, and the servant nodded.

"He's got to go somewhere," the servant said, and looked over to see Zar watching them. She quickly left the two men standing in the entryway, eyeing each other. The other looked as though he were about to approach, his right arm twitching slightly before he thought better and remained where he was.

"The name is Flarien Valen," the auburn-haired elf stated, keeping his eyes warily on the drow.

"Zarthaen," the dark elf stated flatly. They were the only words spoken between the two before they began their trek to the Valen household.

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Zar sat at the kitchen table, watching his food grow cold. All around him was the horrible sound of chewing and chattering and laughter. 'They must be pretending I don't exist', he speculated as he poked the food with his utensil. When the dark elf had refused to eat dinner with them, the mother, Shentie, had given him such a murderous glare and pointed to his seat that it reminded him of his own mother.

He quickly obliged.

At least that was one thing he could understand, even if it did make his blood boil. Vengeance was bred into him keenly well, and he poked the food like it was a dead rat sitting on his plate. He refused to eat it. Eating with fairies; Lolth must be laughing at him. His weapons were only inches from reach where they lay strapped at his lower back and they were likely unskilled fighters. Yet, here he was, throwing a silent tantrum, protesting with a fork instead of his swords.

"Not good enough for you, eh?" The table grew quiet after Simon made his remark, clearly aimed at the dark elf scooted to the farthest corner of the table. Zar slowly looked up, his eyes locking with the eldest boy sitting next to his sister, Alhandrea. Every pair of eyes turned towards Zar as the drow flinched, his wrist snapping in a sharp and swift movement, sending a piece of silver flying by the boy's face. Shentie didn't get a chance to scream as the butter knife imbedded deep into the wall behind the boy whose expression was filled with a mixture of shock and outrage. Zar stood and made to leave, but Flarien cleared his throat. Their silence must have required them some great resolve, Zar decided as he inwardly cackled at their attempts to hide their own shock. Flarien, the father, stood and trudged towards the front door, obviously expecting Zar to follow. The dark elf decided it would be better than being in here amongst the awkward and shocked silence hanging in the air.

As Zar stood, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared indignantly at Simon. He followed silently behind the father, closing the door behind them and welcoming the cool, crisp darkness of the nightly hour. The dark elf almost ran into Flarien when the man suddenly stopped and spun around, jabbing a finger into Zar's face.

"I swear to the gods if you harm one member of my family I will not hesitate to have your head put on display in the town court." Flarien's words were vicious, rising up from a deep reserve of well learned and well earned hate towards everything Zar was. He could hear it in the man's voice, and knew that he'd better watch his step around the man. The older elf wasn't bluffing. Nevertheless, the drow was too prideful, and his indignant glare remained set in his expression. Flarien seemed to wait for Zar to argue, and honestly, the drow was tiring of the staring contest but didn't have any argument to give. He knew a threat when he heard it and wasn't dumb enough to push the point. When it was obvious that he wouldn't, Flarien pushed past him and into the house, leaving Zar standing outside like a dog that had just been kicked out the back door.

There was only one cure for the frustration that Zar felt, and it was quite simply the death or pain of something else. Zar settled for a tree, seeing as how he had no idea how to hunt on the surface. Picking up the nearest sturdy stick he could find, he took to abandoning any skill and mercilessly wailed on the nearest tree until he was too tired to feel anything. His hands numb from hitting something quite solid, he dropped the third stick he'd broken and unsheathed his daggers. He went to quick work at the very air itself, practicing form and technique. It was a sort of meditation for him, and he quickly fell into an imaginary battle with an invisible opponent. Reveling on the heightened sense he felt, he closed his eyes and became absorbed.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" a familiar voice asked, and Zar nearly flew into the tree tops in fright. Spinning around, his eyebrows lost in his hair, he saw Alhandrea leaning against the tree he'd been attempting to make firewood out of. He opened his mouth to make a snide retort, and she seemed to notice as she held up her hand. "I know… I know. 'What business is it of mine, right?'" She looked at her feet as she said this, and Zar's face dropped its mask of irritation.

"We're taught to fight at as young an age as possible," Zar said finally, aware of his accent and just how strange he must seem. It hit him quite suddenly and he did his best to dismiss it. Alhandrea perked up, looking at him with obvious curiosity. She wanted him to continue. Zar didn't. Sheathing his daggers and sighing audibly, he started slowly back towards the house.

"Could you teach me?" she asked, following him mercilessly. Zar shook his head and it elicited a frown from her. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," he spat at her, anger rising into his tone without restraint.

"I don't want you in my house, but we can't have everything we want." There was the threat Zar knew would come for as long as he stayed here.

"Look," he said, stopping to look her in the eye, "I don't want to be here anymore than you want me here. So stay away from me long enough for me to get the nine hells out of here and I'll figure it out as fast as I can," he explained, a bitterness in his voice.

"Why can't you cooperate? Why do you have to be so mean?" Alhandrea asked, her voice rising with disbelief. "All you do is prove everything they've said about you!" She was yelling now, pointing a finger at him just as her father had.

"And whatever they say, they're probably right," he growled, snatching her finger and holding it tight. "I don't want to have anything to do with you or your family. If I wasn't here I'd be graduating from the Academy right now. But instead I'm somehow stuck on this gods-forsaken place dealing with brats like you that'd I'd rather--!" Zar's voice rose so high in volume that he didn't take notice of the growling issuing from the mouth of his soon-to-be attacker. Both drow and dog went down in a heap, the beast ripping into his calf with all the intent to permanently maim him.

"Seer! No!" he heard Alhandrea yell while he fought to get the animal off of him. Smacking it in the head only seemed to make the creature more ferocious, but he was getting desperate. They weren't far from the house and it was mere seconds before the family was out the door to see what all the commotion was about. Zar lay on the ground panting as the dog was ripped from him by a strong command issued by Flarien. His daggers had been thrown when the dog had attacked, and Zar lay completely open and defenseless on the ground, cursing in his native tongue.

"Don't move," he heard Shentie say as the woman bustled forth to check his wounds.

"Don't touch my weapons," Zar snarled when he heard someone's curious hands pick them up. Whoever picked them up didn't listen, but rather fled to the house on some rather quick feet.

"Is he alright?" Alhandrea asked, and Zar was surprised to hear very obvious worry in her voice.

"I need more light," Shentie said. "Can you stand?" she asked, and Zar moved to get up with much help. It was then that the burning sensation in his leg and arm hit him, and he knew where his wounds would be.

They hobbled him into the house where he was set on his cot. Alhandrea hurried to place several things around him while he watched her, silently cursing under his breath. She hurried out of the room when Shentie entered, telling her daughter to get some liquor. All the while, she kept the men out of the room. Shentie went to quick work pulling off his leather pieces of armor and stripping the right side of his shirt away. There was the thick odor of blood, and it assaulted his senses. He hadn't smelled blood in a long time, he realized. It was just another thing one got used to and didn't notice until it didn't occur for a long time.

A movement to his left caught his eye, and he looked over to see Salena, the youngest daughter, setting his weapons next to him on the cot. He eyed her angrily, and she returned the stare with wide, frightened eyes. Just as she set them down she spun on her heel and ran. He didn't get a chance to laugh, though, for Shentie chose that moment to stick a heated needle through his skin. Yelping, he stared at the wound in horror. Alhandrea held a light over the wound, watching it with a great intensity. Shentie sewed quickly as Zar fought not to pass out. He lodged the leather end of the gauntlet she stripped from him between his teeth and moaned in pain. It seemed to last forever but Shentie appeared to be a skilled healer and went as quick as possibly. Once she'd tied the end she poured more liquor over the wound.

"Zarthaen, you were limping. Do I need to look at your leg?" Shentie asked, but didn't seem to be waiting for an answer as she was already poking at the obvious wound.

"No," he said weakly, falling against the cot and trying to draw his leg away.

"It will get worse if you don't let me treat it." Shentie spoke softly, and the tone of her voice reminded him of the Lady. Zar froze long enough for her to pull his boots off.

"Take off your pants," she ordered. Zar lay limp on the cot, daring her to repeat herself.

"Don't make this difficult, drow," someone spat in the doorway. Zar looked up blearily to see Simon standing there, a sneer on his face. Zar attempted to return the hostile look, but he was sure it was pitiful.

"Get out!" Shentie yelled, and Zar watched him flee, gleefully enjoying the sound of the door slamming behind the boy.

"Maybe he wanted to see me without my pants on," Zar chuckled and coughed, and Alhandrea giggled secretly until her mother glared at the both of them. His sudden humor surely lifted at least a fraction of the tension, though. Shentie reached up to untie his breeches as she ordered Alhandrea to hold his legs. He fought her the second he realized her intent, wrestling with her to keep his pants. Attempting to aim a kick at Shentie, he found the move impossible as her daughter was quick to do as instructed.

"Why am I always at the mercy of you people?!" he screeched, his voice rather high with panic.

"Just hold still or you'll make it worse!" Alhandrea said through gritted teeth, holding his leg in place. Zar yelped in pain, attempting to snatch it back. It was too late though, as Shentie made quick work of ridding him of his pants. Zar seethed, laying there in his shorts and feeling utterly taken advantage of. Nudity didn't bother him in the least, but having two faerie elven women winning in a physical stand off to keep his pants really made him glad no one else was here to see it. When he heard Alhandrea hiss at the sight of his wound, however, his mind quickly went towards the real problem. Shentie was heating the cleansed needle and dipping the thread in liquor as Alhandrea inspected the wound. She looked up at him, her eyes quite serious and worried.

"Don't look at me like that!" Zar squeaked, his voice still quite an octave high. Alhandrea smiled humorlessly at him, shaking her head in disbelief. She didn't elaborate at her thoughts, though, for Shentie had come near to organize the wound and sew it shut. It took a lot longer, and halfway through, Shentie began to mutter something about how it probably wasn't going to work.

"I'm not an experiment here. If you don't know what you're doing, I'd rather you not do it," Zar said between bites on the edge of his discarded armor.

"My mother is the town's healer," Alhandrea said with a snort, as though that should make Zar feel all the better.

"I'm just thinking that we may need to burn it shut," she whispered after a long silence in which Zar stared at the ceiling, paling noticeably and twitching each time the needle entered flesh and drew the string through. He groaned at her explanation but didn't argue, for once. There wasn't much energy left in him.

"I hope this holds," she said an hour or so later. She wiped the sweat from her brow and poured more liquor over the wound. "You're going to have to remain in bed Zarthaen," she said wearily. Alhandrea handed her the bandages and then went to cleaning up the blood.

"You can just call me Zar," he said vaguely, looking up at the ceiling. Alhandrea and Shentie froze and stared at him, trying to figure out if he'd been swapped out for someone else.

"So you _do _know how to be kind," Shentie said, obvious glee touching the corners of her words. Alhandrea giggled.

"Well, I, it's…" Zar fought, and then gave up rather quickly. He sighed, wanting to roll over and go to sleep rather than reverie, but Shentie was still wrapping his leg. When she'd finished with his leg, she made quick work of wrapping his arm. His eyes were closed and he did not see her pause to stare tenderly down at him, but did know that she lingered rather unnecessarily. When everything had been cleaned up and put away, Shentie left the room on silent feet, leaving Alhandrea hovering over the wounded dark elf.

"Do you want your pants back?" she asked, humor lacing her tones. Zar feebly shook his head, remaining in the awkward half on the cot, half off, laying down position Shentie had left him in while she'd tended his wounds. The door opened and the boys entered to take to sleep. Zar was going to be sharing the room with Simon, the oldest, Evan the middle, and Stephanien the youngest. He gathered some strength to roll himself all the way into bed for fear Alhandrea would make him appear all the weaker in her attempts to help. She tossed his breeches onto his cot and left, bidding her brothers goodnight.

He lay there, listening to the boys fall to sleep, unable to let himself rest now that they were there. It was reverie tonight then, he figured. He pulled the blanket folded at the end of his bed over himself, careful not to tear any of the carefully placed stitches. He tucked his weapons under the cot with the rest of his discarded armor before stretching out. It hurt, he had to admit. So did the rush of confusion that overcame him as he lay there thinking. Alhandrea's worry for him when he'd been lying on the ground wounded. Her worry as she and her mother treated those wounds. Was it a trick to make him soft towards her? No, it seemed so genuine. More real than anyone could fake. And Shentie's tone, so much like the Lady that it made him pause, made his heart pang in his chest in a way so abnormal that he couldn't begin to understand it. Salena also, her eyes wide with obvious fear; her fear had seemed so out of place and yet the only thing he could understand. Everyone else had treated him like he was a nuisance and little else, which was probably true. What fear was to be had in a lone, young dark elf completely and utterly stranded and at the mercy of their choices?

When three sets of lungs were breathing at an even pace, Zar let reverie take him. It wasn't an easy feat to set his mind at ease, but his fatigue was far too great. Besides, there was no use trying to figure these people out, he decided. Either he found his place or he perished. Station. Rule number one.

How could he have forgotten so easily?


End file.
